We are unprotected,
                                      looking over his shoulder
As the beekeeper scoops them,
                                                          lets them cling

To his sleeve like thick honey.
                                                        Can’t you see it?
It will be like this.
                                Every cell emptied, a shadow

For a hand, hovering over us.
                                                      Us facing the sky,
In a clover field,
                             trying to chain the stiff and slick

Stalks together without breaking.
                                                            I’ll believe in
                        that they teach redemption better

Than you. I have seen the carved stone bees
In a frieze,
                    the filigree,
                                         the immobile clovers.

But think,
                 what are bees without their hexagons?
The stone ones I mean
                                          are up in county Antrim.

The myth says giant hands,
                                                  more light than shadow,
Forged the hexagonal columns.
                                                          Don’t believe stories

Like that mama,
                             truth might make for better truth,
Seawater and the lava,
                                          thick and flowing as saliva.

J.P. Grasser